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Poem by Stephen Crane


* * *


I met a seer.
He held in his hands
The book of wisdom.
”Sir,” I addressed him,
”Let me read.”
”Child -- ” he began.
”Sir,” I said,
”Think not that I am a child,
For already I know much
Of that which you hold.
Aye, much.”

He smiled.
Then he opened the book
And held it before me. --
Strange that I should have grown so suddenly blind.



Stephen Crane


Stephen Crane's other poems:
  1. Two or three angels
  2. You tell me this is God?
  3. Many red devils ran from my heart
  4. The ocean said to me once
  5. To the maiden


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